


Writ in Ink

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Implied past torture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tattoos, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: "Crowley still isn't sure if it's exhilarating or terrifying to be completely in control of making his own choices. What he is sure about is that standing around on a wet Monday evening waiting for the tattoo studio to open up is far more boring than anything else."Crowley takes advantage of his newfound autonomy, gets a tattoo and worries if he's doing the right thing. Another step on the road to healing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 102
Collections: Week 22: Tattoo





	Writ in Ink

**Author's Note:**

> For the Ineffable Husbands FB group prompt 'tattoo.'
> 
> Implied that Crowley experienced torture in the past, but nothing graphic.

He doesn't need to ask Aziraphale for permission for anything. The angel has been very firm about that; that he's allowed - encouraged - to do anything he wants. To be Crowley and just Crowley (or Anthony if he wants to be) rather than Crowley-the-demon or even Aziraphale-and-Crowley if he needs to be for a while. 

Crowley still isn't sure if it's exhilarating or terrifying to be completely in control of making his own choices. 

What he is sure about is that standing around on a wet Monday evening waiting for the tattoo studio to open up is far more boring than anything else. Rain is slicking down his hair and edging its way below his collar, and Aziraphale will probably fuss that he didn't take a waterproof with him. 

He'd asked a few of the young humans who always seem to end up around the bookshop and they'd all recommended Sanjay, who had a place that was just about in walking distance. 

'Nice bloke,' they'd said. 'Always does a great job.'

He'd admired their rainbow designs and abstract ones, a tree on someone's shoulder blade, something there is in beauty inked like handwriting down another's forearm. 

He'd got the unspoken message as well: he's one of us. Won't say anything to anyone. Won't judge.

Now, still waiting, shifting his weight back and forwards, he wishes he'd had the courage to ask 'does it hurt?'

Sanjay lets him in eventually, offers him a cup of tea that he declines. Aziraphale will have cocoa when he gets back to the shop, and besides, he's fiddling with his shirt buttons and drumming his fingers on the table while Sanjay goes through what Crowley assumes is the usual spiel of information. 

'You're still happy with this design?'

He hesitates, swallows. He is, a thousand times over; he's been working and reworking it in his sketchbooks for the last few months. A human habit but one that he's indulged in a lot recently. 

'I still feel it might fade rather quickly, given how small the design is.'

Crowley smiles to himself. His skin knows better than to disobey him - occasional sunburn mishaps while gardening aside - and if Aziraphale likes it, it'll stay clear and sharp for as long as he wills it. 'That's fine. It's more the...gesture, you know? He'll know I'm always wearing it.'

'If you're sure,' and Crowley nods. 

There's a quick bit of paperwork (the age questions make him laugh) and he's waved to a chair that he makes a real effort to sit on in a way that looks mostly human. No unnatural spine bending. 

The antiseptic wipe is cool, cold, against his skin and pointless. Bacteria know better than to bother him, but he wants to do it properly. 

'You're a bit of an artist as well then?' Sanjay asks, back half turned now as he gathers his kit. 

Crowley can feel himself blushing. That's an Aziraphale description of him. 'A bit. Make some jewellery. Bit of metalwork. Nothing special.'

He'd made their rings, and Aziraphale claims his is the single most beautiful thing he'd ever owned. 

A low whistle. 'Yes, I can see why wearing a wedding ring isn't great for that.'

'Always afraid it'll get lost when I take it off,' which sounds a more believably human reply than 'I want to make him part of me, really part of me, forever.' Aziraphale doesn't mind that he normally wears his ring on a chain round his neck. 

Surely Aziraphale won't mind this. 

'Makes sense.'

The plastic transfer of the design isn't too bad either, although he's already having to fight his urge to slouch in the chair. 

It's something he wants. That he's chosen all for himself (alright, a bit for Aziraphale of course). OK, maybe it's a bit weird that there's needles involved and he has to very pointedly look away; he's seen enough things done to his own body over the centuries that he's not comfortable with seeing his fingers being bent around into place, even if it doesn't hurt. 

'Are you alright?'

'Y-yeah.' He breathes out, a bit shakily. 'I'm fine.'

'We can stop if you'd like.'

Retired or not, he still has a demon's pride. 'Of course not.'

Sanjay nods. Crowley shuts his eyes and pretends the needles are happening to someone else, very far away. 

He's surprised when it's all over; when his finger is being wrapped in cling film type stuff and he's waving a card over the reader for what he thinks really isn't a lot of money. He doubles it. 

'Thank you,' he says eventually, still staring down at his hand. It doesn't hurt exactly.

He walks back in what's actually a decent rainstorm now. The streetlights are blazing by the time he's halfway home and the few drivers who are daring the congestion charge throw up waves of spray from their cars. Crowley's glad he hadn't brought the Bentley.

Gives him longer to try and convince himself that it's going to be fine. 

The angel notices by the time he's taken two steps into the shop, before he's even had time to get into a proper fuss about how wet Crowley is. 

'What's happened to your hand, love?'

The first thing he wants to reply is 'is this alright?' He doesn't. 

Extends his left hand to Aziraphale and forces a smile. 'I...uh...Got a tattoo. For when I can't wear the ring, so everyone can see. Look?' His voice ends up an octave higher than when he'd started. 

Aziraphale smiles. A genuine smile, eyes like blue gems, like fire. 'Dearest.'

'You like it?'

'I can't really see it properly,' Aziraphale says. His fingers ghost across Crowley's hand. 'That...that's to make sure it heals properly, right?'

'Yeah.'

'I don't think we need to worry about that then, love,' and there's a snap of fingers and cool air seems to wind its way around his finger. The faint stinging vanishes, and Crowley flexes his hand. 

'Wings,' Aziraphale says gently. 'Mine. And your stars.'

Sort of. They're rough human approximations of stars, but they're his stars. And yes, Aziraphale's wings. 

'It's beautiful. I'm so glad you did something for yourself,' and he brushes his lips against the tattooed ring. 

Another little bit of the tension in Crowley ebbs, never to return.


End file.
